


tell me, i'm your baby

by opheliavevo (javajoy)



Series: her perfume stains your hands [1]
Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:09:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24530581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/javajoy/pseuds/opheliavevo
Summary: They can both leave this apartment with dark purple bruises on their throats, on their chests. Covered in enough sweat to mask the perfume.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Series: her perfume stains your hands [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1772851
Kudos: 49





	tell me, i'm your baby

The paint inside of her apartment is chipped and the air smells of daisies.

Floral and artificial.

Eve only turns her head slightly to watch the older woman as she shuts the door behind her, quietly thankful for every dark curl of her hair which obstructs the view. Eve was no stranger to lying and misleading others, small falsities that fell from her tongue with ease and immense denial she faced in her reflection.

Her composure had been crumbling for weeks, perhaps it had already shattered. Everything that once made Eve the woman she was had been stolen from her bit by bit. Parts of herself that Eve willingly abandoned in pursuit of Villanelle.

There was only her now. Two separate women somehow composing one whole individual. It was only them. That's the thought that echoes in Eve's mind as she places her hand on the wooden door, forcing it closed. 

Like the walls, the door is old and worn. There are carvings in the wood, delicate, and interact. Lost to time and faded to the point of unremarkablity. Someone might have admired them once, Eve traces her finger over the edges of the design.

She doesn't want to know if Villianelle had run her own fingers over the very carving that Eve was fixated on.

Eve locks the door, as though the action could keep herself from wondering.

\--

The hardwood floorboards creak as Eve makes her way deeper into an unknown normalcy. With an entire career, an entire _lifetime_ spent studying psychopaths and their separate counter partners of serial killers and assassins; Eve knew perfectly well that they were capable of this type of normalcy.

But even with that knowledge, and everything she knew of Villanelle, Eve hadn't been prepared. There were throw blankets on the love seat, an old radio that was being taken care of. One of her brasiers was on the ground, loose change on the countertop.

Plants in the corner, only one of which was wilting. Shopping bags littered throughout the living area, some of which still held clothing with overpriced tags. Bruised fruit in a small wire basket, dirty dishes, and cutlery still in an impossibly tiny sink. 

There are champagne and wine bottles in the far back of the kitchenette. Some of them are hidden by a layer of dust and branded by an old age, some of them are young and comically cheap. Eve reaches for one, not bothering with a glass.

The air is warm despite the autumn air, despite the large french window panes lining the wall. Eve steps closer to them, not watching the Paris scene that's displayed just before her. Her own eyes can't help but scan the woman that's reflected to her.

She presses her hand against the glass, watching her fingers spread across the surface. The cold of the season is less kind when she's this close.

These windows are expensive, purely for aesthetic. That was going to be her entire apartment, chic as shit.

Eve thinks about her windows in her small London home. If a telemarketer ever called her about new windows for sale she might make a poor decision.

As if it would be the first.

\--

It's the fact that Villianelles clothes _smell_ like her, _that's_ what Eve can't handle. Floral, delicate, with a hint of vanilla. So unlike her, too unfitting.

And all of her clothing reaks of that smell.

Not even the champagne could numb the sensation of Villanelle. She throws the bottle down behind her, reveling in the shattering which follows the action. Drops of liquid that stain the comforter of a bed she's afraid to approach.

Eve rips the garments from their velvet hangers, tearing at the fabric until they rip. Still imagining how they would fit _her_ , how they would drape on her. Eve takes a bundle of clothing in her arms and tosses them to the ground.

There's a fire in her breath that airs around her. A vanity set is her next target, Eve knocks the contents off. More shattering fills the room but it isn't enough. Eve breaks the mirror next. She has enough bad luck, but a small part of her believes she deserves several additional years of suffering.

\--

Eve stumbles into the bathroom next, bracing herself against the porcelain sink- golden faucets stained with magnesium- as an absurd amount of perfume bottles lining the window sill mock her.

There were countless bottles of countless scents, each and everyone representing a separate persona of Villanelle. Fake and haunting. 

Eve smashes those, they shatter at her touch, shards of glass scratch her flesh as the oil stains her hands like blood. The sleeves of her sweater soak up the liquid, _drowning_ Eve in the smell of _her_.

She shakes her hands, rubbing them on her jeans. Unintentionally marking herself with the perfume.

\--

The smell follows her even as she flees the room.

\--

It's still with her.

\--

Eve is going to smash _everything_ in this apartment.

\--

But the lock of the door starts to rattle, the sound echoing down the entryway.

Her presence will not be a surprise, Eve knows this but still attempts to hide. Pressing herself flat against the refrigerator, flexing her fingers around her gun as oxygen refuses to fill her lungs.

There's dust floating in the light streaming in her the kitchenette window, Eve watches that little particle as the door opens. There's a pause before it's closed. The intruder is observing the scene first, just as Eve had.

Through her panic and anxiety, Eve has to suppress a huff at her delusion. _She_ was the only intruder in the apartment, and the owner had come home. Eve could smell her perfume from this side of the apartment, the same scent that stained her hands.

\--

Villanelle is wearing the same light pink sweater, her hands are placed around her waist and her hips lean to one side. Her black jeans are tight enough for Eve to observe the plush thighs, the shape of her backside. Her hair is still worn up and Eve is almost tempted to repeat the first words Villianelle had ever said to her.

Almost.

Glass crunches under her shoes, Eve's fingers clutch her weapon as Villianelles head perks up. Quickly twisting herself to face Eve. Hazel eyes encased in bruises flicker to her hands before holding her face in a soft gaze. Softer than they had any right to be.

Villanelle makes no move to defend herself, no does she show any indication of fear or alarm at the weapon Eve points at her. Her lips are pulled into a false scowl, a playful mask in a mocking performance of annoyance.

Eve can't look away from her face. Taking in every beauty mark, every freckle, every bruise. Drinking in the sight of Villianelle as though this had been the first time she had come face to face with the monster. As though she hadn't memorized the face of this woman on the day they had met.

Long before she had been tasked with hunting her down across the globe. There had been a magnetic pull of that strange woman, a force that only intensified with time.

Villanelle is saying something, Eve struggles to return to reality.

\--

She's smiling, the gun is slipping from her fingers.

\--

Eve says more than she should.

\--

Villanelle listens with care.

\--

"I masturbate to thoughts of you."

\--

Eve's thigh press together when those words leave Villanelle's lips.

\--

"God, I'm tired."

\--

The mattress is soft, encasing Eve's body in a perfect embrace. Silk sheets kissing her flesh as Eve pushes herself deeper into the bed. She pretends to study the french tiled ceiling as she intently listens to the sound of Villanelle standing.

Walking slowly to the mattress, and eternity passing in those few steps as the other woman lowers herself down next to her.

Villanelle falls to her back, a different smile fluttering across her cheeks. Holding the gun tightly to her chest.

\--

They've rolled to their sides, facing each other. The air growing warmer with each beat of their hearts. There's a tide to Villianelles breathing, soothing and melancholic. 

She runs her hand down the length of Eve's face, brushing hair behind her ear; cupping her face.

Eve wants those hands to roam lower, to trail down her neck, dip down under the fabric of her sweater. She wants Villianelle to wrap her hands around her waist and pull her closer. She wants to know what it feels like to be pressed flush against this woman.

And she doesn't want to be gentle, Eve wants to take all of her aggression out of Villianelles lips. Bit down on her kiss until they both taste copper, fist her hand in that blonde hair and pull until she has unrestrained access to her neck.

They can both leave this apartment with dark purple bruises on their throats, on their chests. Covered in enough sweat to mask the perfume. Villanelle brushes her thumb across Eve's cheekbone. She wants to kiss her, she _deeply, truly _does.__

__But Eve has never gotten anything she's ever wanted._ _

**Author's Note:**

> stay safe.


End file.
